


The Angel of Music

by theinterstellartimetraveller



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: I don't even know why, M/M, i just really love good omens and the phantom of the opera ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-25 14:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinterstellartimetraveller/pseuds/theinterstellartimetraveller
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are out on a little date at the theatre, when a little secret of Crowley's surfaces...





	1. Sing Once Again For Me, Our Strange Duet

In what seemed to be the unlikeliest of places, an angel and a demon were on a date.

The place in question, London’s Her Majesty’s Theatre, with its soaring ceiling and famous crystal chandelier, played host to  _ The Phantom of The Opera _ , arguably one of the most successful musicals to ever grace a theatre stage. At that very moment, the eighth and last show of the week played to an audience packed to the rafters. It was a special night; numerous members of the current cast were moving on from the show, and throngs of fans filled standing room spaces, grateful to just be in the room. In fact, a general air of what seemed to be thankfulness rippled through the enthralled crowd.

Nestled in the middle of the seventh row of the stalls, Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Stop fidgeting, Crowley,” muttered Aziraphale from beside him, never once taking his eyes off the stage. Crowley fought a scowl, twisting in his seat to face the angel, whose face was illuminated by the flickering lights perched atop ornate Parisian candelabras. Two figures in what appeared to be a boat glided through the mist, a tall man in a black cape and white mask steering the fake watercraft across the stage. A woman in a white dressing gown grasped onto the sides of the craft, gazing wondrously out into the crowd, at no one in particular.

“You’re  _ enjoying _ this?” He demanded. No fewer than two people shushed him rather angrily. He scowled at them, then dropped his voice to a low hiss. “You’re enjoying this?” Onstage, the woman in a white dressing gown let out an impossibly high note, and Crowley, smirking, briefly wondered if she would explode. It had been easy work, getting a certain Composer to include the infamous, almost whistle-like note in the titular song of the celebrated musical. The man had leapt at the prospect of having the almost inhuman note, which could’ve been sung by only a handful of the most  _ exclusively _ talented singers, in his musical; he’d called it ‘absolutely brilliant’. Crowley could only guess how many aspiring young singers had injured themselves attempting the same note. Thousands, perhaps.

He glanced around. The awed, yet slightly pained grimaces of the audience, who had experienced what he liked to call  _ The Note _ lingered in the theatre’s very structure. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Or it could have been  _ The Note _ .

“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Aziraphale primly, still not shifting his gaze from the stage, “and you would too, if you gave it a chance.” Crowley lapsed into a sullen silence. “It’s rather different from the book, I’m afraid.” 

“I know,” said Crowley, “I was there. Saw the Opera Garnier. Met Gaston. Lovely chap; bit too much of a romantic.” For the first time in twenty minutes, Aziraphale pulled his attention away from the stage.

“ _ You _ were at the Opera Garnier?” A chorus of shushing sprang up at his exclamation, and Crowley, twisting around in his seat, raised his shades and glared at them again. The slightly irate mumbling subsided. “ _ I _ was at the Opera Garnier. I  _ sang _ at the Opera Garnier, back in the late 1800s.” Crowley had flushed a deep red, his arms crossed tightly across his chest as he forced his attention on the man in the mask, who was in the midst of what could have been best described as ‘flamboyantly caressing’ himself, rather seductively, if he dared to say so.  _ Andrew, you little- _

“Watch the show, angel,” he sighed. Aziraphale frowned, then returned his attention to the stage.

“Don’t think this is over, Crowley.” Crowley grimaced, and wished he hadn’t spoken.

* * *

As soon as the chandelier had come careening down over their heads and crashed in a heap on the stage, barely missing the two leads, and the lights had sprung on, Aziraphale had pulled Crowley up by his arm and led him out of the theatre and, by a little miracle, into the lounge used by the VIP ticket holders. Not one to miss out on an opportunity to have a drink, Crowley called a drink order out to the amused bartender as they swooped past the little bar.

“What do you  _ mean _ you were at the Opera Garnier?” demanded Aziraphale, when he had led to an empty corner table beneath a large Victorian painting, “ _ when _ were you at the Opera Garnier?”

“The late 1800s.”

“The 1860s?” Crowley shrugged. “1870s?” Another shrug. “1880s?” Crowley looked vaguely towards the bar. There was his answer. A thought struck Aziraphale. Something that Gaston Leroux had insisted on, till his death. “Was there really a phantom?”

“I ordered a drink,” Crowley mumbled, eyes darting about.

“ _ Crowley!” _ Crowley picked up a stray menu, studying it intently. Aziraphale paused. He’d never seen Crowley read, much less  _ study _ anything, apart from an excerpt from an article about botany, but that had been decades ago. He’d said it himself, he didn’t  _ read _ . He frowned. There was something going on here. 

“Well…” said Crowley, rather sheepishly, looking Aziraphale in the eye. 

And Aziraphale  _ knew. _

“Good heavens,” he breathed. Crowley shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“It’s me,” said Crowley, with the air of a man who had been forced to reveal his darkest secret, “ _ I’m  _ the phantom of the opera.” Aziraphale gaped.

“But…” He ran through the plot of the story in his head. He owned the book, first edition and autographed, of course, but it’d been a while since he’d read it. He blushed. “And the angel of music…?” He sounded hopeful.

“Yeah.” A smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself.” The waiter approached their table with a tray of drinks. 

“Start,” said Aziraphale, reaching for the lone mug of hot cocoa, “from the beginning.”

Crowley grabbed a drink and downed it. This, he decided, was not something he could do sober.


	2. Till I Hear You Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make the rest of this story one HUGE chapter but I decided to split it up into smaller chapters. (Also because I wanted to post an update quicker.) Hope you like it!!

** _ Sometime in the late 1880s. _ **

Crowley had always known that angels sang.

_ All _ angels sang. Them and their damned celestial harmonies, wordlessly singing about glory and power and majesty. Which wasn’t actually the problem. The fact that they never stopped singing, _ that _ was the problem. Angels didn’t need to breathe, of course, but Crowley wished they would. Even ethereal entities needed a break from the harmonies sometimes. All this had ceased to be an issue when The Fall had occurred, of course.

Crowley himself had been part of a few bands in his time, in remarkably elaborate disguises. Woe betide anyone who found out that the hideously cool (in his opinion), swaggering demon had been part of a popular music group.

On a particularly calm Wednesday morning in Sicily, Crowley sat in a seaside café, sipping a cup of something a waiter had claimed to be ‘exquisitely groundbreaking’, but had turned out to be something not unlike a good cup of tea with milk. He downed the rest of the drink, decided that it would’ve done better with just a touch of alcohol, and was wondering where he should head next, when a loud voice came booming across the café. Crowley scowled, but the words that echoed across made him freeze.

Two tables down, a man had just mentioned a bright new opera singer. The singer had apparently sung recently in the newly opened Opera Garnier in Paris. He boasted of the singer’s clear, crisp voice; the ‘sound of angels’. Although, the man noted, angels in Paris would not have been caught dead wearing that much beige. The faint clattering of porcelain that followed marked Crowley’s hurried exit.

He arrived in Paris on Thursday.

* * *

_ **The present, A.Z. Fell and Co.** _

“You didn’t even know it was me, but you came running?” The angel’s eyes had softened, the way one’s eyes does when setting their attention on a particularly adorable puppy or kitten. Crowley grumpily mumbled something about not actually running. “You know what I mean.” He did. The angel beamed at him, a smile that seemed to light up the room around him. Crowley blinked; the angel did actually seem to be glowing slightly.

“Would you stop grinning?” He snapped, scowling, “you’re making me sick. Also, you’re glowing slightly, which is not at all human-like.”

“It’s very, _ very _ sweet, Crowley.”

“I swear to you, I will throw up right now if you don’t stop.” It had been bad enough that Aziraphale had made him sit through the second act of that darned musical, but this? This he didn’t deserve. With a twitch of his hand, Aziraphale brought a trash can flying through the shop. It connected with the table leg with a clang, and came to a stop next to a slightly bemused Crowley.

“You’re very welcome to,” he said, gesturing to the trash can. He rested his elbows on the table, dropped his chin into one of his palms, and added, “Now tell me, did you really wear a mask?”

* * *

** _ Paris, Thursday. _ **

Standing on the curb, just on the edge of the street, Crowley squinted up into the feeble morning sunlight at the Opera Garnier. It _ was _ something to behold, even he had to admit that. The great domed roof and soaring golden statues sat atop a building with intricately carved figures and pillars like a crown. Not just a regular tiara or diadem, but one fit for actual royalty. This was the crown jewels of opera houses. Clearly, no expense had been spared.

Crossing the street, he stepped into the opera house itself. If no expense had been spared on the exterior of the building, he wondered how many small countries could have been bought with the money spent on its interior. Definitely three. Maybe five. The interior, with its forests of golden candelabras, marble floors and staircases, gold-leaf crown molding and painstakingly painted murals, made the carefully-worked exterior look like a plastic Christmas tree in a forest of majestic firs.

He slipped from the entrance hall and into the artistes area, careful not to attract attention. He needn’t have worried. The artistes area, a stark difference from the opulent front of house, was buzzing with activity. Handymen crossed the floor with ladders and tools, and groups of little ballerinas bobbled towards the dance studio, looking all the world like baby flamingos. A large blackboard on one of the walls caught his attention, and he meandered over to it. The blackboard in question bore the names of the performers in the opera that week. Barely half a minute later, he'd found what he'd been looking for.

There it was, bright as day.

A. Raphael.

He had to watch this. Just as quickly as he'd made his decision, Crowley’s smile dropped, and he ducked behind a curtain. He pressed his cool hands to his warm cheeks, and willed his heart to slow down. What was happening to him? The truth was, the demon had always had a rather… _ tiny _soft spot for the grinning angel. Over thousands of years, however, that tiny soft spot had become something large enough to sink the entire United Kingdom in.

He’d been slightly ashamed of it. An angel and a demon? No one had to know. No one _ could _ know. So he left notes to the managers in their offices. Not particularly threatening notes, not the sort that dear old Gaston would later take the liberty of creating. They were simple notes, informing the managers of his intent to purchase a box for his usage, although, and this was something he could barely remember, he _ might _have mentioned something about wanting to listen to a certain A. Raphael sing more.

The notes might have helped. The notes, and a little extra compensation to tip them in the right direction.

Four notes later, Box 5 was his.


End file.
